


Deeper Magic

by isquinnabel



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2660924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/pseuds/isquinnabel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing his leg, Alastor is stuck recovering in St Mungo's. If pushed to admit it, he'd probably concede that he doesn't actually dislike the young Healer assigned to him -- especially when he learns who they have in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deeper Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for A Ficathon Goes Into a Bar at Livejournal/Dreamwidth.

“Now, detaching the wooden leg is a simple matter of a Disengagement Charm...”

The Healer prattled on and on, pointedly ignoring Alastor’s fixed glare.

“…and you’ll find that your mobility will increase with time. I don’t expect that extensive rehabilitation sessions will be necessary – your knee is still intact, which is extremely lucky…”

If this pompous idiot called him _lucky_ one more time, he’d better be prepared for one hell of a Whip Jinx.

“…however regularly you wish to. Either way, our policy in cases like yours is a minimum of three sessions with a Healer who specialises in physical rehabilitation. I’m not on that team, so it won’t be me – “

“Thank Merlin for that,” he growled.

The Healer paused. Nothing daunted, he picked up his spiel right where he left off. “I expect your case will be assigned to Healer Bentsen, or perhaps Healer Pevensie. We’ll keep you updated on your projected release date and, of course, feel free to ask any questions you wish. Our primary concern here at St. Mungo’s is the health and happiness of our patients.”

Before Alastor had time to ask any questions (or, as the case may be, shout an incantation), the Healer had flashed a blink-and-you-miss-it smile and swept from the room. He sank angrily into his pillows, trying his damnedest to ignore a persistent itch in the foot that no longer existed.

\---

Someone was hovering to the right of his doorway. They’d been at it for exactly one and a half minutes. He could only see the very edge of their shadow – an elbow, and the occasional glimpse of a forearm – but he was fairly confident that whoever was lingering in the corridor was a woman of fairly small stature. If experience had taught Alastor anything, it was that size was absolutely not a reliable indicator of power. Someone who appeared to be small and unassuming was well and truly capable of being utterly ruthless. He kept his eyes locked on the doorway, and his right hand tightly gripped his wand.

When he heard her take a deep breath he immediately raised his wand. She stepped into the room a moment later but came to a sudden halt when she caught sight of him.

“State your name and purpose,” he barked.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Moody,” she gave a small smile. “Healer Worthington warned me you might do this.”

She placed her wand gently on the top of a nearby cabinet, and took a large step back.

“I’m Healer Pevensie. Lucy, if you prefer.”

“Explain to me, Pevensie, why you were skulking in the corridor.”

She raised her eyebrows. “ _Skulking_ might be a bit of an overstatement. I was, funnily enough, running through my game plan in case you drew your wand as soon as I walked through the door.”

“Oh? And what plan was that, exactly?”

“What I’ve just done. I planned to put my wand down somewhere visible and step away from it, so you can see that I’m not armed.” Pevensie held out her empty palms. “I’m not armed, Mr. Moody. Would you mind putting your wand down?”

Eyes still narrowed, Alastor slowly lowered his wand. He kept it in his hand though, of course. Just in case.

\---

Pevensie turned out to be a lot less stupid than that idiot who had been in to see him earlier. Worthingham, or whatever his name was.

“Healer Worthington’s not an idiot,” protested Pevensie. “He’s a bit too pleased with himself, I’ll grant you that, but he’s not an idiot. He’s the most intelligent wizard I’ve ever met.”

“He’s an idiot,” grumbled Alastor. “What’s more, he’s an idiot who thinks he’s marvelous. That’s the worst kind.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree.” She paused. “Let’s try it without the third Support Charm, this is too easy for you. Get a good grip on the handrail while I undo it.”

Once Alastor’s right hand was holding firmly onto the rail, Pevensie flicked her wand – she’d picked it up again once their session was properly underway – and Alastor felt himself suddenly go off kilter. He quickly grabbed the rail with his other hand too, to prevent himself from toppling over.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing, Pevensie?” he barked.

“You’re learning fast, and you’re ready for fewer Supports. It’s not surprising, really. You have a very physical job, your body is quite used to maintaining its centre of gravity in new situations.”

“Don’t try to dress up what you did with pretty little compliments.” He lifted his right hand from the rail to point accusingly at her. “You nearly knocked me over.”

Pevensie grinned at him. “If you say so. From a rehabilitation point of view, you did a very impressive job of not falling over.”

Muttering under his breath, Alastor gingerly distributed his weight back onto the wooden leg. With one hand still firmly clasping the handrail, he began slowly pacing the length of the room.

“Tell me something good Worthington’s done.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said he’s the most intelligent wizard you’ve ever met. That’s quite a statement, lass. Give me some proof. Tell me something he’s done to earn it.”

“Well…” Pevensie paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “He’s the brains behind PCT. That’s pretty significant.”

“And what on earth is PCT?”

“Patronus Charm Therapy. It’s a way of treating patients who have been though any sort of severe mental trauma.”

Alastor froze, the knuckles on both his hands turning white. He whipped his head around to look Pevensie square in the eyes.

“Like Frank and Alice, for example?”

Pevensie’s face went pale. For the smallest fraction of a moment, her features seemed to crumple, but she pulled her expression back to normal very quickly. Not quickly enough, however, for her reaction to escape Alastor’s notice. 

“I thought they were under sleeping draughts,” he accused. “The kind that blocks out your dreams. It’s been almost a month, are they awake now? What’s happening to them?”

Pevensie shook her head. “I can’t give you any informa-“

“Pevensie.” Alastor narrowed his eyes. “When you started talking about treatments for patients with mental trauma, do you mean people with injuries like Frank and Alice Longbottom’s injuries?” 

A minute passed in total silence; Alastor’s firey glare met Pevensie’s clear gaze, neither of them prepared to be the first to look away.

“Mr. Moody,” said Pevensie. “I can’t tell you anything about the treatment plans for any patients except yourself.” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “But I’d be more than happy to keep discussing PCT. Theoretically, of course.”

Alastor stared at her. “Theoretically.”

“Yes.”

“Alright, fine then. _Theoretically_ , what would be happening to Frank and Alice if they were having… PCT, was it?”

Pevensie nodded. “PCT. Sometimes patients who’ve suffered extreme trauma can’t be fully conscious without becoming… distressed.” She hesitated, playing with the sleeve of her jumper. “In those cases we often use sleeping draughts to give the patients some relief, but that should never be a permanent solution. PCT is a way of easing patients to a point where they can cope with being fully awake.”

“And you use Patronus Charms to keep them calm?”

“Exactly.”

Alastor shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. A Patronus is a physical shield. It doesn’t beam happiness to the room at large, it’s a concentrated memory. Frank and Alice’s problem isn’t a Dementor lurking over them, it’s something that’s already happened. Something that Death Eater _filth_ have already done to them. That damage is inside of them now, a Patronus can’t fix that!”

Pevensie gave a tiny smile. “Maybe in your line of work, that’s all a Patronus is. I mean, yes, you’re right about it being a concentrated memory. But a corporeal Patronus can communicate the memory that it’s composed of.”

Alastor had a brief mental image of a shining silver buffalo perched on a barstool, sharing its fond childhood memories over a flagon of firewhisky. “That still sounds ridiculous. What does it do, chat to your patients about all the lovely things it remembers?”

“No. It… well, for lack of a better word, it sort of transfers to them. The form your Patronus takes is important, the patient needs to make eye contact with it for the treatment to work properly. Not everyone’s is suitable. I once worked with an extremely talented Healer whose Patronus was a butterfly, so she can’t administer PCT. Have you ever tried to make eye contact with a butterfly?”

“And so the patient… experiences the memory?”

“In a way. It depends on a lot of things, the strength of the charm you’ve cast for one. It’s usually just… impressions. Even at its weakest though, PCT transfers a great deal of peace. That’s when we use it. It’s meant to help patients who need a hefty dose of peace.”

Alastor didn’t respond. He concentrated on completing a lap of the room with his wooden leg successfully holding him upright.

“You ever seen it done?”

“PCT? Yes, I have.”

“Ever done it yourself? With your Patronus, I mean?”

Pevensie nodded. “We go in teams. Maintaining a corporeal Patronus for a long period of time can be draining, we need multiple Healers present for backup.”

“Show me,” he growled.

“Excuse me?”

“Show me. Show me how you do it. Look, we can throw the word _theoretically_ into this conversation as much you like, but we’re talking about the Longbottoms here. I need to know, beyond any doubt, that they’re getting the best care you can throw at them. Show me your Patronus.”

To be perfectly honest, Alastor didn’t actually think that she would do it. He expected a sincere but firm apology, and an appeal to some nonsense St. Mungo’s rule that she was duty-bound to follow. _I can’t perform any powerful magic while on-duty that isn’t directly related to your treatment_ , something like that. But, after a moment’s piercing stare, she raised her wand and calmly declared, “Expecto patronum!”

An enormous silver mass erupted from the end of Pevensie’s wand. Alastor had seen plenty of Patronus Charms in his time, but never in a room that was a bit too small to comfortably play host to a huge, dazzlingly bright animal. The white walls seemed to sparkle and shimmer as the Patronus – a lion – strode majestically towards him, its giant paws making no sound on the hard hospital floor. Its mane seemed to glow brightest of all, and its eyes…

…as soon as Alastor looked into the lion’s eyes, he felt a leap of pure joy deep inside him. There was fur under his hands, he was clinging onto a soft, thick mane with all his might as cool air whipped past his face. All he could see in front of him was the shining depth of the Patronus’ silver eyes, but he could feel himself surging through glades and valleys and orchards, over mountains and streams, passing surging waterfalls and approaching a distant castle. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this sort of delirious happiness in his entire life – he wanted to laugh, to shout into the wind roaring over his ears…

“Mr. Moody?”

Alastor blinked. The lion was gone. The room was back to normal, except that at some point he had sunk onto the ground with a wide, contented smile etched onto his face. He immediately straightened his features into their usual glare.

“Are you alright?” Pevensie looked at him with mild concern, a grin playing around the corners of her mouth.

“Of course I am,” he grumbled, struggling back onto his feet. 

A few moments passed before Alastor gripped the handrail once more, steeling himself with new resolve for another circuit of the room.

“Let’s finish one more.”


End file.
